The Others

The Chronicles of An Other

They called them "others."

Beings with strange gifts, walking the line between fantasy and reality. Some could control fire, some could shift into animals, and others—like Fern—were invisible from birth. No one quite understood why "others" existed, only that they were different. And, as with all things different, they were feared.

Others were rare, so rare that most people lived their whole lives never knowing one, but they knew the stories. Whispers spread in villages and towns, of strange children who could vanish into thin air, who could speak to the wind or walk on water. They were considered dangerous, something to be kept out of sight. Society was built for the ordinary. The mundane.

Fern was anything but ordinary.

Born invisible, her parents had kept her hidden all her life—not out of shame, but out of love. They feared what the world might do to her if anyone knew. They had moved to the woods, away from the prying eyes of the village, where Fern could have the freedom to exist without judgment. But freedom came with a price.

It was a strange thing, being both unseen and hidden.

Fern looked down at her bare hands, where there should have been skin and fingers, there was only air. She wiggled her fingers and watched as the sunlight filtered through her, casting no shadow. The only thing she saw was the gloves she held in her lap. Long, thick gloves that she always wore to keep herself visible to the rest of the family. Without them, she would be nothing more than a ghost wandering the halls of her own home.

She pulled the gloves on, the soft fabric snug against her hands, and adjusted the sleeves of her plain, long-sleeved dress. It wasn't much to look at—frumpy and modest, in dull earth tones—but it made her easier to spot in the house. Unlike her sister Gracie, who could wear all the sheer and pretty things, Fern's wardrobe was purely functional.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees outside her window, casting the woods in a golden light. She loved this time of day, when the world felt quiet and secret, when the shadows began to stretch and the air grew cool. This was the time when she felt most alive, most like herself.

From downstairs, she could hear the sounds of her family beginning to gather for dinner. Plates clattering, Tommy's voice chattering on about something in the kitchen, and the low rumble of her father's voice. It was warm, comforting, but it also felt far away, like it was a world she didn't quite belong to. Not fully.

Fern stood, smoothing down her dress, and headed downstairs.

As she reached the bottom of the staircase, the familiar chaos of her family's life unfolded around her. Tommy, the youngest and by far the most energetic, was bouncing in his chair, his curls flopping wildly as he tried to sneak a spoonful of stew before it was ready.

"Tommy, wait until everyone's here," their mother called, her back turned as she stirred the pot. "You'll spoil your appetite."

"But I'm starving!" Tommy groaned dramatically, earning a chuckle from Andrew, who lounged against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed and a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

Andrew was middle child and had a knack for stirring things up. If Tommy was the ball of boundless energy, Andrew was the one fanning the flames, always ready with a cheeky comment or a playful jab to keep things lively.

"You know, Tommy," Andrew said with a grin, "if you keep eating like that, you'll turn into a stew."

Tommy giggled. "No, I won't! That's impossible!"

"Wanna bet?" Andrew winked.

Fern smiled, slipping into the kitchen unnoticed at first. This was the rhythm of her family—light, playful, and full of noise. It was one of the things that made her feel normal, despite everything.